


Not All Snakes

by tired angry egg (Mirabelle)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 10/100 people ugh-ing at Theodore Nott, 100/100 self-indulgent, 2/100 Snape watching from the sidelines and deciding he's not dealing with this shit, 3/100 typical Pureblood assholery, 5/100 Draco being Draco, 80/100 random shenanigans with the Slytherins in Harry's school year, Angst warning for anything beyond the battle at the Ministry, Canon Compliant (for the most part), Friendship, Light-Hearted, Minor Romance, Multi, Non-Chronological, One Shot Collection, Slytherin Pride, plus the occasional minor OC, will add proper tags as fit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-22 05:38:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11960829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirabelle/pseuds/tired%20angry%20egg
Summary: Or: A collection of random short stories following the 1991-1998 generation of Slytherins over the course of their stay at Hogwarts, the only catch being that they actually have personalities, personal lives and aren't 100% horrible people.(Maybe75%, though)





	1. Snakes on a Train

**Author's Note:**

> (Sneakily pretending like I don't have works in progress and other things I should prioritise over this incredibly self-indulgent piece of writing)
> 
> Hi, hello. This is my first time writing for Harry Potter in a long while and my memory of the entire thing may be rusty-hence why I added "for the most part", after Canon-Compliant. I solemnly swear I will try to be, for the most part, loyal to the tiny bits of characterisation of these characters that pop up, once in a while, in the books _but_ I would like to remind everyone that this is a sympathetic depiction of Slytherins, meant to show them as the kids they were supposed to be (much like Harry and his friends), so one should expect that they won't be as detestable as they were in the canon series.
> 
> I've just really taken a liking to this brainchild of mine and I wanted to share it with the world, hoping that there's other people out there who think that Slytherin is in need of a more... human portrayal (and I hope that the one I will provide will be adequate). 
> 
> Additional Notes: The main focus of this will be OT9, and the various interactions among them, but it will feature other characters from the HPverse, have the occasional romantic subplot-just expect anything you'd be expecting from a series of stories about dumb teenagers. Most of these will be light-hearted and silly, but I might throw in the occasional angst piece (because we all know there had to be some serious angst going on at one point).
> 
>  
> 
> **Cross-posted on HEXRPG**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place in their first year at Hogwarts, during the train ride.

Draco is not pouting. Pouting is not a dignified action and, regardless of age, Malfoys are supposed to be the poster children for ‘dignified’. Thus, Draco—a veritable Malfoy—is _not_ pouting. He is simply staring out the window of the compartment with his lip jutting out, looking at the landscape whizzing by like it had stolen his brand new racing broom and, to add insult to injury, gave it to Dobby as a gift.

 _‘I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks’_ —who does that kid think he is, anyway?

“Harry Potter,” he remembers his father carefully enunciate back at the manor, wiping at the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief, “will be in the same year as you at Hogwarts, I’ve heard.”

“So?” Draco grumbles, chin propped up by his elbow in spite of his mother’s soft admonishments that it’s not proper table manners. It’s just the three of them in the room, so he’s not sure why he’s even supposed to care.

“It would reflect positively on the Malfoy name if, say, you were to befriend the boy,” he explains in what Draco instantly recognises as his Pureblood Socialite voice, which means two things: one, that he has to do as he’s told and two, that he needs to think fast of what to ask for in exchange for his cooperation.

“Considering the amount of media exposure that…” and Lucius drones on about parentage and bloodlines and prestige and the likes, which he knows it’s not really worth listening to. Over the years, he’s figured out that his father tends to start with the very essential and then follow with the long, boring explanations; he just has to wait for when he’s finished and agree to everything.

That’s exactly what he does. “Alright. I shall make friends with Potter,” he declares, offhandedly. It should be child’s play, considering he _is_ Draco Malfoy—simply introducing himself should make _Potter_ be the one outright begging to be Draco’s best friend, which he will generously accept after making it look like he’s thinking about it.

With the matter being settled, a smile breaks out on Draco’s face. “Father, I’ve been meaning to tell you…”

“Yes, Draco?” Lucius’ tone is a mixture of cautious, annoyed, and just a little bit resigned.

“You know that Nimbus have just released the latest model—Theodore told me, you see, that his father would buy it for him if he gets into Slytherin. _I_ believe he’s lying, but that being said…”

That being said, the exact model—a shiny, brand new Nimbus 2000—is currently resting on a gold-plated stand back at home, until his father figures out a way to smuggle it into the castle. Draco hopes this will be sooner than later, so he can become the envy of house Slytherin, or even better, the entire year. _Eat your heart out, Harry Potter!_ he imagines himself shouting as he flies past him and that scruffy Weasley kid so fast that it makes them fall over, leaving him to cackle at the dumbstruck looks on their faces.

He is forcibly pulled out of his reverie by a pathetic moan coming from his right. Though he manages to ignore it at first, the sounds of things being shuffled around and yet _another_ moan interrupts him from glaring down the scenery.

“Ugh. Shut up, Goyle,” he turns his head to glare at the other boy, but ends up raising an eyebrow when he sees him hunched over his hand with Crabbe hovering uncertainly next to him. “What’s wrong with him?”

Crabbe bites his lip, face twisted up in something that might be anger just as easily as it might be simple concern for his friend’s well-being. “Uh, it’s his hand. Where that thing bit him earlier.”

“It’s swollen,” Goyle whines, managing the feat to sound a little panicky in spite of his usual, dragging monotone. Then he says a few choice words about Weasley’s joke of a pet, ones that Draco’s mother strongly frowns upon using as they are ‘a mark of ill-breeding’.

He lets out a quiet scoff. They’re blowing this way out of proportion.

His belief is only reinforced when Crabbe, still awkwardly fumbling about, starts stammering. “Hey, you—you don’t think he could get sick or something? From the bite, y’know.”

Part of Draco is actually surprised that Crabbe’s got enough insight to even consider this, but he doesn’t voice that thought. Instead, he rolls his eyes as far back in his head as they can go without getting stuck and shifts around so he’s sitting more comfortably, elbow on his knee and pointy chin resting on his open palm.

“Who knows? The creature _does_ belong to the Weasleys, so who knows what unsanitary conditions it’s been living in and how many diseases it’s carrying.”

The careless remark is spoken with a smirk, just purposefully mean enough for him to vent out his frustration at his friends interrupting his train of thoughts. But the smirk falls back into a frown when he takes another look at the duo, at how Crabbe’s grimace is _definitely_ one of concern now and Goyle is getting a little green in the face as he clutches at his hand hard enough that it might be doing more harm than good. An unpleasant feeling settles in the pit of his stomach. Out of sheer pride, Draco refuses to put a name to it, but it still makes him really uncomfortable and he wants it to stop.

With a sigh, he pushes himself up on his feet and leans over to where Goyle is sitting. “Here, let me see,” and then he launches into a convoluted explanation that boils down to the fact that Weasley’s parents, blood traitors or not, aren’t stupid enough to send their son to school with a diseased animal.

Though he bets they didn’t even catch half of it, it seems to put them at ease. Soon enough, Crabbe is doing a poor job at storytelling something that happened during one of his father’s hunting trips that summer and Goyle doing a great job at following the story nonetheless, occasionally making a quip or stuffing his mouth with one of the cauldron cakes that Draco surrendered to him in a display of his sheer good-will. Definitely not guilt, as Malfoys do not trouble themselves with things of that sort—what is he, a _Hufflepuff_?

He’s just finished getting changed into his school robes when Theodore Nott saunters into their compartment, complete with carefully styled hair and his signature slimy grin. “Hullo, mates. So, I was minding my own business, just walking around, and I couldn’t help but overhear something about Malfoy’s son and his friends already getting into fights?”

It takes every ounce of Draco’s mental strength to suppress the groan threatening to come out of his mouth. Instead, he schools his features into the perfect picture of indifference and picks at invisible dirt under his fingernail.

“You should know better than to listen to baseless rumours, Theodore. If there’s been any fighting, you should know I’ve got nothing to do with it.”

“Of course,” his smile widens, showing a row of straight white teeth, though the ones in the middle are a smidge larger. It’s almost unperceivable, but it’s an imperfection that Draco gladly latches onto. “Which is why Gregory over there is very subtly covering his hand, thinking I didn’t already notice it’s all red and swollen.”

Goyle, the idiot, had unceremoniously shoved his hand into a pile of candy wrappers that Theodore walks over to remove with an (exaggerated) sympathetic wince, shaking his head.

“I’m actually impressed, Draco. You managed to get in trouble before we even got to Hogwarts,” he lets out a low whistle. “What’s old man Malfoy going to say about this?”

“I don’t know,” he replies testily, with most of his composure gone and a strong urge to open the window and forcibly shove Nott through it. “And I don’t think we will ever know considering he is not going to find out.”

He’s already got a string of threats lined up in order to make sure that Nott keeps his mouth shut—while his father will definitely hear about how Potter snubbed him in order to ally with a blood traitor, it’s over Draco’s dead body that he will hear about them being chased away by aforementioned blood traitor’s pathetic rodent, or otherwise be led to believe that they’d been engaging in primitive, _Muggle_ fist-fights. However, Nott silences him with a wave of his hand before he even has a chance to start.

“Mind your tone. I’m not a snitch—just a concerned friend,” then, to Goyle, “it doesn’t look that bad, but you should still put some Dittany on it when you get the chance.”

“Fantastic,” Draco drawls out, purposefully raising his voice so it covers whatever Goyle was trying to say in return. “Now, can you go be a concerned friend somewhere else?”

“Someone’s in a mood,” he mumbles, just loud enough for Draco to clearly understand him. Git. “Well, as sad as it makes me, I can tell when I’m not wanted. I’ll see you at the sorting.”

And he leaves the compartment, to Draco’s great relief—only to poke his head back in, seconds later, smiling impishly. “And probably in our dorm room, come to think of it. For the next seven years of our lives. Ponder on that for a bit, will you?”

This time, he throws the closest thing in his direction—which happens to be a slightly soggy, empty Chocolate Frog wrapper. To his further disappointment, Theodore’s instincts are sharp enough that he manages to shut the door just in time for the cardboard to hit the glass surface and pathetically fall down onto the floor; he also has the audacity to laugh before walking down the corridor until he’s out of view.

Significantly more annoyed than before, Draco sits down, folds his arms over his chest and goes back to Not Pouting. His biggest comfort lies in the fact that it’s steadily getting darker outside, which means they must be approaching the castle. By this point, he just wants this day to be over.

Next to him, Goyle lets out a whining noise. Draco’s patience is wearing thin.

“Oh come on, it can’t hurt that much—“

“Not that,” the other boy lifts the lid of a box, frowning. “My last cauldron cake is gone.”

 _You mean_ my _last cauldron cake is gone_ , Draco thinks, but remarking on a moot point would be a waste of energy on his part, and he doesn’t have much of that left to spare.

“You probably just ate it and forgot,” he gives him a side-long glance. “Or Crabbe ate it when you weren’t paying attention.”

Cue Crabbe vehemently protesting that he did _not_ eat the last cauldron cake, so he just goes back to ignoring his friends in favour of glaring out the window and waiting for the train to come to a halt.

 

“So, where’d you reckon she’ll end up, John? Ravenclaw?”

Realising they must be talking about her, Tracey takes her eyes off of the book open in her lap— _A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_ by Emeric Switch—which used to belong to her brother. Said brother is staring at her, eyebrows furrowed in concentration and mouth set in a straight line.

“Maybe,” he finally says, shrugging. “But it’s ultimately down to what the hat picks, anyway.”

One of his fellow Ravenclaws who’s sitting next to her, a pretty girl with dimples named Adrianna, leans closer to ask, “What house do you want to be in, Tracey?” which makes a grand total of three times that someone’s acknowledged her existence during the entire train ride, as opposed to talking about her as if she weren’t there or treating her like a sentient piece of furniture.

“I’m fine with any house,” she says, a little louder than she’s used to so that it comes out a little unnatural and her voice cracks at the end, but at least her brother isn’t going to berate her about speaking up. Then, hoping it would appease them, adds: “Ravenclaw sounds nice.”

Seemingly pleased with her response, the third-years go back to discussions on professors she has yet to meet and spell work that is beyond her, leaving Tracey to go back to studying her book, flipping through it with shaky hands. They should be arriving at Hogwarts anytime soon, and she doesn’t feel ready in the slightest—in fact, she feels a little nauseous. She doesn’t say so to her brother and his friends, but she does tell them she needs to go to the restroom.

“Alright,” says John, feeling around in his pocket. He takes out a couple sickles and presses them into her palm. “Here, Trace. Buy me some pasties if the trolley witch is still around, and get something for yourself, too. Okay?”

She nods and scurries away, clutching the coins in her small fist.

During her trip down the corridor, she avoids looking to her left or right, at the windowed compartments, lest somebody notices her. John and his friends had mentioned that people sometimes play pranks on unassuming first years on the train, calling it a ‘rite of passage’; the thought makes her even queasier than she was before. Instead, she keeps her eyes firmly planted on the floor, minding her feet.

Which is just as well, because otherwise she might have stepped on the tail of the cat sitting smack-dab in the middle of the corridor. She blinks down at it in confusion. The creature lifts its head, golden eyes boring into hers for the fraction of a second, then goes back to licking its paw without a single care in the world.

Smiling, Tracey crouches down next to it. “Hello there. Are you lost?” she asks, though she feels a little silly right away. Hopefully, nobody walks out of the nearby compartments and sees her.

That hope is thwarted when someone declares in a low, guttural voice, “She’s mine” and she sees a heavy-set, scowling girl approaching from one end of the corridor. “She was getting antsy all cooped up so I let her out for a bit.”

The girl is twice her size—she _must_ be at least a third year—and probably not in a good mood, from the way she’s squinting her eyes at her, jaw set and shoulders squared. Everything John has told her about first years being hexed on the train is coming back to her full force, and she’s about to jump at least a feet away from the cat and profusely apologise when the other girl speaks.

“Do you want to pet her?”

There’s a moment of silence that passes between the two of them. “Can I?” Tracey finally asks, timidly. She gets a nod in reply.

Hesitantly, she stretches her hand out and strokes the soft fur of the cat, right between the ears and down her back, relishing in the purring noises she lets out. She finds out from the girl, now standing closer, that her name is Tornado, the girl’s parents bought her as a gift when her Hogwarts acceptance letter arrived and her younger brother named it after the Quidditch team.

“I’ve always wanted a cat,” Tracey finds herself telling Tornado’s owner without taking her eyes off the cat, “but dad’s not a big fan of animals. He barely even likes Pinch—that’s our owl’s name.”

The girl frowns. “That must suck,” then she looks at her like she’s properly seeing her for the first time. “Are you a first year, too?”

Tracey stop half-way through her absentminded nod—then hopes she did a good job of concealing her momentary shock at the implication that this girl, whose fists are big enough that they could give someone a black eye with little effort required, who is imposing enough that Tracey instantly assumed she was an upperclassman, is actually her age. But that looks about right, judging by the generic set of robes that she’s sporting, completely devoid of any house colours. Just like hers.

“Yeah.”

“I’m Millicent,” she holds out her hand for Tracey to shake.

Hastily, she rises to full height (that being roughly the height of Millicent’s shoulder) and dusts herself off before grasping the hand in her own, in a clumsy handshake. “Tracey.”

Neither says anything for a while after that. Millicent bends down and gently picks up Tornado, cradling her to her chest with a hint of a smile on her face softening her features. At this, Tracey feels a little bad for assuming Millicent was mean-spirited just from the way she looks, and like she should apologise. Except she didn’t actually say it out loud, so apologizing out of the blue would be weird.

“Um,” Millicent turns to look at her. “Do you maybe know if the trolley witch is still around? My brother sent me to buy some Pumpkin Pasties.”

“She’s probably at the front with the driver,” says Millicent, holding onto Tornado with one hand and using the remaining one to point in the right direction. “Come on, I’ll take you.”

Playing with the change in her pocket, Tracey thinks of the extra sickles her brother has given her and wonders if Millicent likes sweets.

 

Cheeks puffed out, tongue sticking out in concentration, Pansy lifts her quill to write down the answer and… stops in mid-air with a sigh.

“What is it this time?”

“Wooden magic conductor, five letters,” she grumbles, poking at the Daily Prophet with the tip of her quill. “I wanted to put down wand but that’s only four letters.”

“Try staff.”

Gnawing on her lip, she mentally replaces the letters, checks the neighbouring words… _S, T, A, F, F_ gets etched out on the paper, a perfect fit in the crossword that’s nearly done and only about one third by means of her own intellectual effort.

She narrows her eyes at the wizard sitting across from her, dark-skinned, traditionally handsome and a little too put together for his age—but then again, she’s always had a theory that Blaise was secretly some kind of ancient being masquerading as a kid so he can make everyone else feel inadequate.

“Why are you even good at this?”

“Simple,” he smiles, somehow managing to sound good-natured and condescending at the same time. “I’m smart.”

“You’re conceited,” she retorts, tossing the newspaper away with a huff. “Solving a crossword from the Prophet isn’t that big of a deal.”

“You say that, yet you still need my help to do it.”

“I didn’t _ask_ for your help—you _voluntarily_ gave me the answers,” she looks out the window as she says this, blood rushing to her cheeks as it does whenever she feels like she’s lost an argument she had no chance of winning in the first place. With Blaise, that happens a little too often.

She doesn’t even have to look at him to know he’s rolling his eyes, like she’s some stupid little child he needs to be patient with, and that just sends another wave of annoyance surging through her. The annoyance is justified, she thinks, and she has every right to get angry at Blaise for being patronising towards her… but there’s a _tiny_ chance that this might also be due to her still seething from a couple hours ago, when Draco said he doesn’t want to ride with her on the Hogwarts Express because she’s a girl and annoying and would ruin the reputation he was working hard to build for himself.

Calling him a jerk and stomping away seemed like a good idea at the time but, now that she’s had some room to think about it, Pansy found about ten more dignified ways in which she could have retaliated. Thinking of that missed opportunity is just as annoying as the self-assured look on Zabini’s face.

Speak of the devil. “It’s getting pretty late, so we should be at Hogwarts anytime now,” he muses, acting like he hadn’t made a dig at Pansy’s intelligence mere seconds before. She does the mature thing—sits up straighter, folds her arms and ignores him.

That’s the moment Daphne chooses to return, decked out in a brand new set of robes and a pair of earrings just as elaborate as the hairstyle her mother had charmed her dark brown locks into that morning. She smiles at them and, daintily, takes her seat next to Pansy (who is starting to feel like _all_ her friends exist just to be unfairly gracious and make her feel inadequate).

“Did I miss anything?”

“Not really,” Blaise replies with a shrug, wisely choosing not to make another crack at Pansy’s lack of crossword-solving abilities.

Then it dawns on her. “Where’s Theo?” she leans forward to look beyond Daphne, like she’s expecting him to materialise in front of the door. “Wasn’t he with you?”

“Yes,” the other girl says, then makes a pause where Pansy thinks a sigh was supposed to follow. “But on our way back, we bumped into the Warrington siblings, who had apparently heard something about Draco Malfoy getting into a fight. So Theo just got _that_ look on his face,” this time she does sigh, “you know, like Christmas had come early, and he ran off to investigate before I could stop him.”

Furrowing her eyebrows, she says, more to herself, “He’s getting progressively harder to catch.”

Pansy’s stopped listening about halfway through. “Draco got in a fight!?” she all but yells, her voice taking on that high-pitched quality that makes Blaise cringe (which he sees him do, out of the corner of her eye).

“With who?” then, suddenly remembering her surroundings, she asks “Is he alright?” a little more calmly, but with utmost seriousness and concern.

“They didn’t know to tell us anything beyond that so it might be just a rumour.”

Blaise follows with “I wouldn’t worry too much. The train does have security, so if it were anything serious they would have intervened and we would have heard about it,” and as much as his matter-of-factly tone still gets on her nerves, she has to admit he’s probably right.

“Either way, I’d like to think that Draco isn’t irresponsible enough to get in trouble before we’ve even reached the school,” says Daphne, ever so sensibly, while she picks up Pansy’s discarded newspaper and folds it back up.

She still feels a little restless as she starts to wonder if it isn’t about time that they’d be arriving, considering how dark it’s gotten outside; at the very least so she could see for herself that the idiot is unharmed.

Fate sends the next closest thing—that is, Theodore Nott stepping inside the compartment, holding a half-eaten cauldron cake. “I have returned,” he announces, equal parts dramatic and unnecessary.

 _Nobody cares_ , Pansy wants to snap before she remembers where Nott had actually gone. “Did Draco really get into a fight?”

“Surprisingly, yes,” he bites into the cake and takes his sweet time chewing thoughtfully before continuing. “He’s fine, though. From what I could tell, Gregory’s the only one who got hurt, but it didn’t look like anything serious.”

A grin breaks out on Blaise’s face. “What was that about Draco not being irresponsible enough to get in trouble before we even get to Hogwarts?”

Daphne pretends she didn’t hear him, smoothing out another crease in the newspaper.

“Who was he fighting with?” Pansy asks, half genuinely curious and half because the more specific details she knows, the easier it will be to yell at Draco later on.

“He didn’t say,” he shrugs, then seems to remember something deeply offensive, because his face scrunches up in indignation. “I didn’t get the chance to get it out of him either, because he kicked me out. Imagine this—I go out of my way to make sure the little git is alright because that’s how good of a friend I am, and this is how I’m rewarded.”

As it frequently happens when she’s listening to Theodore talk, Pansy gets the urge to say something mean; Daphne beats her to it by remarking, almost sweetly “You probably deserved it.”

“I don’t deserve this disrespect, and you lot are going to regret it in a couple years when you’re all be working for me,” he sniffs, mock hurt, then proceeds to stuff the remainder of the cauldron cake into his mouth just as the driver announces that they’ll be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes’ time.

“About time,” says Zabini, standing up and stretching his limbs as the others gather their various belongings that they’ve scattered around the compartment.

Before they leave, Pansy takes one final look out the window and, in spite of her initial annoyance, can’t help but feel that spark of excitement her parents had mentioned many times when they’d told her stories of their first day at Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like to yell at me just... do it in the comments, really. I'm so inactive on social media that linking anything down here would feel like a joke. Thank you for reading!


	2. Seeker of Divine Retribution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place in their second year at Hogwarts, based on the events in 'Mudbloods and Murmurs'. Warning for the use of that word and general Malfoy assholery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually stayed up until ass o'clock to finish this--and I didn't manage to, so it took up most of today, too. In spite of this, I have 0 regrets because I'm having too much fun with these. 
> 
> Sorry to any inaccuracies re: canon events but I'm depending on what I remember from the books & lightly skimming through them to double-check so I don't promise perfection. Though they are fictional, I apologise to Marcus Flint and Colin Creevey for everything I've put them through.
> 
> For anyone interested, [here's something that often comes to mind when I think about the vibe of this fic ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EjgOD9vruTE). I think it does a great job capturing it.

This isn’t going the way Draco had planned.

“You can do it, Draco!” a girlish, high-pitched voice shouts from somewhere in the stands. He turns to give her the worst, absolute nastiest glare he can muster—and almost gets a face full of Bludger for his efforts.

He manages to dodge it through sheer luck, twisting to the side in a way that completely throws off his balance and leads to some pretty wonky, embarrassing loop-the-loops through the air.

“Be careful!”

Red with anger and embarrassment, it takes Draco about fifteen seconds (fifteen too many, if you ask him) to get back into position, and about all of his will power not to turn around and yell abuse at everyone on the field and in the near vicinity. A bark of laughter that he identifies as belonging to Flint, their _darling_ captain, only serves to make matters worse.

After all, _he’s_ the one who managed to turn what should have been the best day of Draco’s entire life into a terrible nightmare.

 

Seeing the looks of anger and disbelief on the Gryffindors’ faces when Flint brandished the permission slip they’d gotten from Snape with literally zero effort was nice. Being presented as the team’s newest addition—their _Seeker_ , which as good as cements his rivalry with Potter—was exhilarating. Getting to rub it in their faces that the entire Slytherin team has the newest, best broomsticks up to date was immensely satisfying. Then, the cherry on top of the Christmas pudding, seeing Weasley hit _himself_ with a curse and projectile vomit slugs all over the field was the most hilarious thing he’d seen in the entire twelve-something years he’s been alive for.

Watching their retreating backs, trail of slugs left behind and all, was the best feeling in the world for him. He’s _won._ Then, after he goes neck to neck with Potter on the field and his team completely destroys the Gryffindors, he’s going to make him _eat_ his joke of a broomstick and hope he chokes on it. And maybe gets disheartened enough to give up on Quidditch forever because he’s just never going to be as good as Draco.

It’s just divine retribution, really, for cheating the system and somehow making it on the team as a first year despite _literally every other first year_ being explicitly forbidden to even bring a racing broom. Upon hearing of this, Draco felt so (rightfully) insulted that he’d written home to his father not only to give up on smuggling in his Nimbus 2000, but to get rid of it altogether; a broom that’s been given out to Potter as a freebie is not a broom worthy of Draco’s attention, and his father agreed. And now, Draco is the proud owner of the best broomstick money could buy on a team _full_ of the best broomsticks money could buy, while all Potter has going for himself is an outdated piece of wood and a team filled with literal relics.

The thought makes him smile at the random spot he’d been staring at for the past couple minutes.

“What are you smirking at?” someone to his left asks in a gruff, clearly annoyed voice. Draco’s got a sharp retort on the tip of his tongue that withers and dies the second he feels a weight on his shoulder and finds himself roughly manoeuvred into facing their scarily massive and visibly pissed off captain, Marcus Flint.

He remains silent because everyone knows Draco Malfoy is cool and aloof and answers to nobody (except his father, in certain cases)—not because he’s low-key terrified by the fact that Flint’s hand is way too close for comfort to his incredibly fragile and snappable neck.

The captain glares at him for a little longer while Draco continues to say nothing, hoping he looks defiant instead of scared out of his wits. He finally lets go, though reluctantly, and addresses the entire team with regard to what they’d _actually_ come to the pitch for, besides ‘sticking it to Oliver Wood and his obnoxious team’. Namely, Quidditch practice.

Draco discreetly lets out the breath he’d been holding in. Flint makes no secret of the fact that the only reason he’d accepted him on the team was because Lucius Malfoy bribed slash blackmailed him with better equipment, or the fact that he isn’t happy about it in the slightest. But Draco also knows that Flint can’t kick him off the team without his dad calling off the broomstick deal, and he _definitely_ can’t physically kick him without getting the same result and possibly a hearing with the Wizengamot. That assurance settles his nerves and makes a self-assured smirk creep back onto his face.

“Malfoy,” Flint snaps at him almost instantly, as if activated by some magical sensor. “I didn’t let you on the team so you can stare off into space like an idiot. Get over here and pay attention.”

He makes a show of rolling his eyes as he trudges closer, debating whether he should risk pointing out that he doesn’t like Flint’s tone and he is sure his father wouldn’t, either. But he doesn’t get to say anything, and what unfolds from that point onwards makes him wish he’d said something terrible enough for Flint to beat him up just so he could go straight to the Hospital Wing instead.

“Draco!”

He groans at the familiar, unmistakable voice of Pansy Parkinson and the sound of her footsteps getting closer. As of late, she’s been as easy to shake off as an elbow leech and while Draco initially found the attention flattering, it got old pretty fast. _Maybe if I act busy she’ll go away,_ he thinks, ready to engage in conversation with the nearest teammate before he gleefully realises that he _is,_ in fact, busy.

Turning to her, he has to make remarkably little effort to look discomforted. “Pansy, you can’t be here now. The team takes practices _very_ seriously and Flint doesn’t like to have people watching. It distracts the players.”

Pansy’s face falls, eyes downcast and looking more like a kicked puppy by the second, which makes Draco’s internal cheering feel a little bit inappropriate. It’s not like he can he can help it, though—he’s having the best day of his life _and_ he gets to tell Pansy to go away without having to make up some lie as to not hurt her feelings and have Daphne nag at him for it afterwards. How could he _not_ be celebrating?

Of course it was too good to be true.

"I don’t mind, actually.”

At first, Draco doesn’t even process what’s being said or who’s being addressed, until he checks his surroundings and sees that it’s Flint who had spoken. To Pansy. All while smiling like someone who narrowly escaped an Azkaban sentence by means of a technicality.

“Really?” Pansy’s eyebrows had gone up to her bangs, and she sounds a little like she’s expecting him to laugh in her face and tell her ‘ _Of course not, now get off my pitch’._ Draco really, really hopes that’s what’s going to happen.

“Yeah, it might be good incentive for the boys not to slack off,” the impostor who somehow took Flint’s place when they weren’t paying attention shrugs, eliciting a series of confused stares from the entire team. Pucey opens his mouth to ask something but he’s cut off. “Actually, you could bring a couple of your friends so we have a proper audience, or something.”

Then he says the single worst thing anyone could ever say, that’s not directly insulting Draco or the rest of his family: “Didn’t Nott say he likes watching Quidditch?”

What Theodore had actually said was that he preferred watching Quidditch to actually playing the sport, but that’s irrelevant to everybody involved. Especially Pansy, who lights up at the suggestion and lets out one of her annoying girly giggles, literally skipping away with a thank you and a promise that she’ll be right back with ‘everybody else’. _That_ is even more terrifying than Flint’s sudden personality change, which is now starting to make a lot more sense to Draco.

As it does to Adrian Pucey, apparently, because that’s when he lets out a loud guffaw and good-naturedly claps Flint on the back.

Sometime during this, Draco’s left eye had started twitching and his mouth had fallen open in complete shock and anticipated mortification. He realises that only when he has to close it because they’re officially starting practice and Flint yells at him “Malfoy, what did I say about gawking at nothing like an idiot?”

Gripping his broom a lot harder than he necessarily has to, he wonders how honest Nimbus were being when they boasted about its sturdiness and whether it would be effective in taking down a guy twice his size and four years his senior without giving him the chance to retaliate.

 

That brings Draco to another point where he’s gripping the broom harder than customary, except this time it’s to make up for his precarious balance and prevent himself from falling to his untimely death, all while Flint yells out insults directed at his flying skills from the other side of the pitch, looking positively delighted. He grits his teeth in annoyance and tells himself to focus—with moderate success this time, as he manages to dodge the next Bludger without it being a close call.

But it’s pretty difficult to focus when, down in the stands, Pansy is constantly being reactionary and loudly expressing her concern over everything that’s going on and Nott is making a spectacle of himself cheering and whistling, taking care to be extra loud whenever Draco makes a blunder and being generally embarrassing. At least it’s just three of them and Daphne is being silent, despite looking like she was just dragged along and was bored from the very beginning, but it’s not like it _helps_ , either. He’s starting to think that Flint’s got a very good point by making Quidditch practices closed to the public.

Almost like he wants to remind him that he shouldn’t be paying him any compliments, mentally or otherwise, Flint yells: “Would you stop zoning out and actually pay attention to the game, Malfoy? If this is the best you can do, I’m letting Higgs play in your place until you feel like taking this seriously.”

He wouldn’t—can’t, actually, because that’s the entire catch to his father sponsoring the team—but it doesn’t make Draco any less angry hearing it, especially since part of him can’t deny that he really isn’t taking this as seriously as the rest of them do. But that small part of him is quickly pushed aside by his desire to make everybody recognise what a brilliant flyer he is, shut Flint’s ugly gob once and for all and wipe that irritating smile off of his face.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots the perfect opportunity in the shape of the large gobstone they’d charmed into acting like a knock-off Snitch, since not even Flint could strong-arm his way into getting an actual one for a simple practice. Seizing the chance, he slows down abruptly enough that when the gobstone zooms past it’s in perfect synchronisation and just the right place for Draco to reach out and grab it. Which he does, keeping the grip of his left hand on his racing broom while his right hand closes around—

Nothing, because whoever’s charmed the gobstone did a stupidly good job or Draco’s luck completely ran out after he witnessed Weasley throwing up slugs all over himself. Except he’s gone through too much humiliation for one day to just have his one chance at redemption slip away when it’s just a little out of his reach, so he picks up speed, leans in closer—

He _does_ get the gobstone. In an actual match, that would equal to 150 points and an almost guaranteed victory for his team, who’d treat him like a king during the after-party and for a good few days later. But the other thing he gets is what’s surely going to be an ugly bruise as the momentum propels him forward and face-down into the end of his broomstick with a painful smack, hitting right between his eyebrows and painfully squishing his nose against the wood.

Predictably, considering the misbalanced weight and terrible posture, he and his broom (and the stupid gobstone still clutched in his hand) start approaching the ground at an alarming late, in spite of Draco’s instincts kicking in and him making a last ditch effort at trying to reposition himself, at least so he can stick the landing. Suddenly, his broom is jerked backwards with incredible force and something pulls at the back of his robes.

He’s both surprised and not really when he turns and sees Flint using one hand to steady his broom, one hand to hold onto the back of Draco’s robes so he doesn’t fall off, and only the strength of his thighs clasped around his own broomstick to keep himself upright. _At least he’s no longer smiling_ , but he doesn’t get to quip on this out loud because he’s pretty sure his voice would shake and ruin the delivery.

 

Once he’s got both his feet on the ground and no longer feels like he’s in immediate danger, suffice to say that Draco is in a pretty sour mood. It’s worsened by the pain he can now fully experience in the absence of adrenaline, and even more by having to deal with his friends rushing over to fret over him (“I _told you_ to be careful!” Pansy cries out, giving him a worse headache than he gets from falling face-first into a broom) until he manages to shake them off.

Shortly after, Flint brings the practice to a close and approaches him. He doesn’t look particularly smug, but there’s something in his sombre expression that still manages to make Draco’s blood boil.

“You’re not actually rubbish, Malfoy. You’ve got _some_ talent,” he says after a while of just standing there like a large, ugly statue. “But that also needs some effort to go with it if you want me to stop yelling at you all the time. Try—well, _trying_ at something for once in your life.”

He curls his hands into fists tight enough that he can feel his nails dig into skin. He knows Flint’s got a point, that he did a terrible job up there because he couldn’t keep his personal feelings off the pitch and worried more about his reputation than the practice game, that he’s probably got an ugly mark on his face to show for it and he can’t even complain without making himself look even more like the pathetic, whiny brat everyone on the team say he is whenever they discuss how he doesn’t deserve to be on the team and he’s only as good as his father’s money. He _knows_ this.

Yet…

“Whatever. I don’t need to listen to you,” he says with as much venom put into his words as possible, topping it all with a disdainful snarl. The movement sends a jolt of pain through his nose and forehead. “I could always let my father know you’re deliberately singling me out and treating me poorly for no reason at all.”

And with a final scoff, he tilts his head upwards in a purely _Malfoy_ gesture of rebellion. Because Malfoys don’t back down, they don’t compromise, and under no circumstances do they listen to people who are beneath them. Marcus Flint may be older and bigger than him but, in the grand scheme of things, he’s nothing but dirt under his perfectly polished boots.

He needs to make sure it stays that way.

Everybody’s staring, nobody says a thing. For a brief moment, even Flint just looks down at him unblinkingly—then, something in his eyes hardens, his mouth sets itself into a thin line, his jaw clenches.

His tone is downright glacial as he tells Draco to “Go to the Hospital Wing and get that checked out” before he walks away, and he gets the feeling there’s a whole other place Flint would’ve liked to tell him to go to instead. The rest of the team follow his lead soon after; not a single one spares the new Seeker another glance on their way out.

 

Draco spends the next hour and a half being lectured by Madam Pomfrey in the Hospital Wing while she’s tending to his wounds. Plural, because apparently at one point during the entire incident, the gobstone activated and coated the inside of his palm with a substance that made his skin blister. The matron purses her lips in a disapproving tut-tut while Draco wonders whether Flint knew this was going to happen and deliberately picked a mildly acidic one to get back at him. He remembers the cold look in the captain’s eyes and the equally cold manner in which the rest of the team had brushed past him and decides it doesn’t matter anymore.

Though he’s a little paranoid about the possibility of bumping into Weasley and his slug-vomit during his stay at the Hospital Wing, it never happens. Even more, by the time he gets back to the Common Room, the rest of his friends (Crabbe and Goyle had been in detention and Zabini didn’t feel like going) had already been filled in with the turn of events, so nobody presses the matter any further. Not even Pansy, though that’s probably because someone—most likely Daphne—had managed to talk her out of it.

As he sits on one side of the plush armchair closest to the mantelpiece later that evening, Draco finally relishes in a moment of peace and quiet.

It doesn’t last, because his thoughts wander and he finds himself wondering if word of his mishap had reached Potter by now. With his rotten luck, it definitely has and now the entire house of Gryffindor is laughing about it, trying to out-do each other with mockeries of how they think the entire thing had unfolded.

Divine retribution has come full circle and then some more so it could bite him in the butt—and its living embodiment is sitting next to him, copying his homework with gusto and ravishing the box of expensive Swiss chocolates his mother had sent him the other day. He scowls at Theodore when he sees him pick up _yet another_ chocolate and toss it into his open mouth.

He pretends not to notice this at first—then turns to Draco, with that detestable grin of his. “Now, don’t give me that look. A deal is a deal.”

Draco squints at him for a little longer and, when it yields no results, redirects his attention to the pile of images in his lap. Colourless images of him flailing around in the air like an idiot, being yelled at by Flint and of course, falling face-first into his broom—over and over again, in an endless loop that makes him feel a dull ache where he got hit if he stares at it for too long.

Somehow (probably by being an incorrigible creep unwilling to take no for an answer), Nott had convinced that Mudblood kid following Potter around to lend him his camera, so he could immortalise Draco’s most humiliating moments and use them as blackmail material. After half an hour of negotiating and getting him to swear that no, he didn’t have time to make any copies and _oh yes_ , he definitely made sure that Creevey won’t tell a living soul about it, he was given ownership of the photographs in exchange for a week’s worth of homework, the box of chocolates, and an assortment of random favours that Theodore was allowed to claim at any point in the foreseeable future.

In short, it’s a _terrible_ deal. His only consolation lies in the inevitability that, sooner or later, something will pop up that he can hold over Theodore’s head to either nullify the deal or turn it in his favour. Maybe if he plays his cards right, Daphne will take pity on him and help him make that sooner later than rather.

But for now, all he has is a stack of humiliating pictures that his father will definitely _not_ hear about, if Draco can help it, and that he’s going to turn into a pile of ash the first opportunity he gets. He tucks them into one of his textbooks, in anticipation of that opportunity, without it crossing his mind that he might end up not taking them out again for a good few years to come, when he can no longer bring himself to burn them.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Theodore Nott did to convince poor Colin to let him use the camera, develop the photos that very day _and_ swear to secrecy will not be revealed for two reasons: a. I haven't put that much thought into it and b. it's probably too horrible for words.


	3. Black and White and the Green In-Between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place in their third year, during Harry's second trip to Hogsmeade (when he tries to scare the Slytherins half to death by playing ghost). Or: Tracey Davis begins to understand there's more than two kinds of people in this world and slowly starts to accept that she's part of house Slytherin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little heavier than the previous chapters and not nearly as humorous. But that was a given from the get-go, considering the POV character isn't as entertainingly petty as Draco Malfoy. It includes: moral ambiguity, mentions of death (of animals and people), and things that normal thirteen-year-olds shouldn't even be discussing. With some friendship moments thrown in here and there. 
> 
> I honestly think it's a given, but I'm going to say it here just so it's clear: the message of this chapter is definitely not that anyone should condone animal cruelty or anything of the sort. This is my try at something Serious And Complex and I don't want people misinterpreting it just because I've failed to carry across the right message. 
> 
> On a lighter note, [everyone listen to this for no reason whatsoever](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EoaCIt8TR2c).

Licking Butterbeer foam off of her upper lip, Tracey leans back in her chair. For the past few hours, it’s been difficult for her to even have a moment alone with her thoughts, what with being constantly on her feet, dragged from one store to another and part of (rather, witness to) conversations that change course once every few seconds. But now, sitting at a table in The Three Broomsticks surrounded by people she can’t exactly call friends, the awkwardness is starting to catch up with her.

Clearly she’s the only one feeling out of place—though Zabini is just as quiet, there’s a cool air of self-assurance in it that makes it painfully obvious he’s got enough things he could say to his friends and simply chooses not to. Instead, Tracey watches him roll his eyes at them with so much contempt that it makes her wonder if they _truly_ are friends.

Either painfully oblivious to this, or just not caring enough, Nott tries to goad him into tasting some new kind of mints he got at Honeydukes that are supposed to freeze the tip of your tongue. While he’s leaning over the table so he can dangle the mint in front of an irate-looking Zabini’s nose, Daphne Greengrass seizes the opportunity to smear a line of chocolate on his cheek, all the way down to his chin. Her giggles turn into weak sounds of disgust when Nott sticks his out his tongue as far as it can go in a futile attempt to get some of it off.

“ _Ugh—_ Theo, stop that. You’re such a pig!” Pansy Parkinson exclaims in a shrill voice, face scrunching up. Judging by the way Nott’s smirking and Zabini looks even more annoyed, the entire display was not only intentional, but also had the intended result.

“What can I say? People would start talking if I didn’t resemble my old man one way or another.”

The comment earns him a delicate snort (Zabini), a whack across the back of his head (Greengrass) and a fervent reprimand that he really shouldn’t be saying things like that about his father in public, even if it’s just a joke (Parkinson).

Tracey picks up her glass and takes another sip, keeping her eyes on the wooden surface of the table.

 

When she’d gone out to Hogsmeade, she hadn’t intended to spend her time with any of her fellow housemates. It’s not that she doesn’t get on with them, but over the course of her first two years at Hogwarts she hadn’t really managed to cross the bridge from ‘civil acquaintanceship’ over to ‘friendship’ with any of them, save for one. Namely, Millicent—who lost her weekend trip privileges the week before when she got in a brawl with some fourth year (“He was being a cocky git, he had it coming”) and kindly handed her a couple galleons, asking for Honeydukes sweets and some treats for Tornado.

She met up and talked to John and his friends, who politely offered to take her with them if she was by herself; she refused just as politely and tried not to feel a little sad when she saw her brother’s shoulders sag in relief at not having to chaperone his pesky, friendless little sister. Soon after they left, she bumped into Susan and another Hufflepuff girl whose name she couldn’t recall. They exchanged hellos and were long gone by the time she remembered _It’s Megan_.

Cold air nipped at her cheeks in spite of the clear, sunny day. Tracey pulled her striped green and silver scarf up higher, relishing in its warmth and ignoring the sinking feeling in her stomach trying to send her a message she didn’t want to hear—something along the lines of _Maybe you should actually make an effort to fix your abysmal social skills if you want to have more options than shopping by yourself or having John let you tag along out of pity._ True, she’d never quite managed to turn any of her acquaintances into friends, but she’d be lying if she said it wasn’t for lack of trying.

Just when she was about to enter Honeydukes, the universe answered the prayer she’d never meant to send in the form of Daphne Greengrass calling her name. She stopped to say hi, and sometime during that conversation was talked into hanging out with the other four Slytherins.

They all went into Honeydukes first, where she bought Millicent ‘literally anything chocolate’ and some jelly slugs and assorted sweets for herself—Nott bought an obnoxious amount of just about everything, and the total he had to pay had made her stomach churn. Then they proceeded to drag her around literally every nook and cranny of Hogsmeade because Blaise needed new robes, Parkinson needed a new cauldron, Greengrass needed to get a gift for her sister, Nott needed nothing but made a point of going into every single shop and buying something nonetheless.

It hadn’t been unpleasant, per se, but it got hard to keep up with them at one point. Fifteen minutes into the trip, Tracey had already bought everything she needed while the others started digging into their goods. She got two smothering hugs from Greengrass after she’s had a chocolate bar and a half, the cold shoulder from Zabini, half of Parkinson’s pastry because she was too full and nobody else liked strawberry, a hairpin that Nott got for free from a shopkeeper he’d sweet-talked—and besides that, aching feet, a freezing nose and probably a couple years taken off her life.

She was about to make up an excuse to get out of visiting _yet another store_ —with her luck, it’d be their third time at Honeydukes—when Zabini, who looked pretty tired of the whole thing himself, suggested they go to The Three Broomsticks. Tracey wasn’t about to object to something involving a warm place and a chair to sit on, since the alternative would be finding another spot to do the exact same thing, except by herself.

Now, she kind of wishes she had, though she’s not sure how much better feeling lonely would be when compared to feeling like she doesn’t really belong. It’s clear that the four of them—even Zabini—have known each other for years, long enough to have created a strong bond, to have made memories that carry over into their conversations and help them flow seamlessly, despite the constant jumps between subjects. Compared to that, Tracey either doesn’t have anything to say to them, or by the time she thinks of something, they’ve already moved onto something else.

“Where’s Malfoy and company, anyway?” asks Zabini, interrupting an argument on which shop was going to be the next one to open a Hogsmeade branch. “Weren’t we supposed to meet up with them? Not that I’m complaining.”

In an instant, Parkinson forgets what she was going to say in favour of _Madame Sachetelle’s Boutique_ and turns to him with a frown on her face. “He went to the post office. Said he needed to take care of some things for the case—you know, to get rid of that awful creature.”

“Oh yeah,” he rolls his eyes (for the eleventh time). “Sorry. It seems to have slipped my mind that Malfoy doesn’t have anything better to do with his time than try to get animals convicted for physical assault.”

Parkinson’s frown deepens—maybe at the comment, maybe at the fact that Nott started laughing, or a little bit of both.

“I still can’t believe he’s managed to make it into such a big deal in such a short time,” says Nott. Zabini raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“Really? Because I don’t see anything hard to imagine about Lucius Malfoy turning the Ministry on its head if he so pleases.”

“Over a Hippogriff of all things,” Nott shakes his head, but he’s still got a smile on his face. “Well, I guess it’s not like we could’ve expected him to be _happy_ about his son getting hurt.”

“It could have been avoided, though.”

Though theoretically she’s aware of it, it only really dawns on Tracey that _she’s_ the one speaking when they all turn to look at her with varying degrees of curiosity. Then, because nobody’s yelling yet and her self-preservation skills seem to have gone on holiday, she elaborates.

“I mean… Professor Hagrid gave us clear instructions of what we should do and not do, and Draco Malfoy didn’t follow through,” she stiffens a little under Parkinson’s glare. “No offense to him… but none of this would’ve happened if he’d listened, at least that’s what I think.”

She can’t really gauge their reactions for the most part, though Nott gives a non-committal shrug like he’s considering her point. Pansy Parkinson’s sitting upright, all puffed up and looking pretty offended, though in an unpolished imitation of the controlled way in which people with ‘proper pureblood upbringing’ appear to be offended.  

“That’s irrelevant—who’s to say that _beast_ wouldn’t have hurt Draco regardless?”

“Ah yes, that tiny scratch on his arm must’ve hurt something _terrible_ if it put him out of commission for months. I can’t even begin to imagine how much he’s been struggling, the poor bloke.” The glare is redirected to Nott, who grins unapologetically.

“I’m still upset with him for getting us all worried back then,” Greengrass, who’s been fairly quiet up to that point in the discussion, mumbles.

Her observation gets no response, as Parkinson is too busy letting Nott know that his sarcasm is ‘very inconsiderate and very much not appreciated’ and Tracey is a little worried that speaking up again would remind her who she was originally glaring at.

Finally, Zabini seems to tire of the conversation enough to put in his own two knuts. “ _Professor_ Hagrid,” he emphasises the title mockingly, “shouldn’t have brought something potentially dangerous for his very first class, and nobody would’ve had to deal with this nonsense.”

“That oaf shouldn’t have been made a professor in the first place,” Parkinson remarks, almost spitting out the words, at the same time Tracey finds it in herself to say “I just don’t think it’s fair for the Hippogriff to be punished for reacting to someone provoking it despite being told not to”.

Parkinson looks like she is about to throw some choice words in her direction, but she’s rendered speechless by Greengrass saying “I’ve got to agree with Tracey”—frankly, _everyone_ is rendered speechless for a fraction of a second.

Zabini breaks the silence with one of his amused snorts. “Why, Daphne, I didn’t think you were this sentimental.”

“It’s not about the Hippogriff, it’s just on principle,” Greengrass declares, sounding more like she’s answering a professor’s question rather than talking to her friends. Whatever giggly state she might have been in from all the sugar is dead and buried under a steady voice, perfect posture and the unusual—but enviable—grace she carries herself with on a daily basis.

“It’s not like Draco didn’t understand the danger or wanted to look cool defying authority or whatever. He _ignored_ a professor’s warning—“ Parkinson looks like she wants to interrupt, but she isn’t given the chance “—on purpose just because he knows that causing him grief would get on Potter’s nerves.”

“Well, like Blaise said, he shouldn’t have brought—“

“You’re not seeing my point. This isn’t about Professor Hagrid being irresponsible and Draco being stubborn—this is about Draco provoking a dangerous creature on purpose, worrying us half to death by exaggerating how hurt he got, potentially risking a professor his job, making his father pressure Ministry officials just to get _one Hippogriff_ executed—“

She lists all of these off on her fingers with enunciation and coherence fit for an actual debate and a smile on her face; except it’s not the smile she greeted Tracey with at the entrance of Honeydukes, but the unsettling kind she would expect to see the villain of a story use to describe the many ways they were going to torture the protagonist to death. It’s a bit scary, for sure, but kind of impressive at the same time.

Tracey gives a cursory glance to the others. Parkinson’s glare has faded to nothing and she seems to be deflating, though it’s unclear if that’s because the thinks Greengrass is intimidating or that she might have a point. Zabini has the exact same unimpressed look on his face that she expected him to have. On the other side of the table, Nott has his head propped up in his hand and looks up at Greengrass like he’s only half-listening, but with a sort of fond exasperation that makes her feel like it isn’t the first time he’s had to hear this.

“—and all of this just because he knows it would affect Harry Potter. He’s going out of his way to drag wizarding law into this just so he can have the upper hand in a rivalry with another thirteen year old boy.”

“Now, Daphne—“

“No, Theo. I know we all joke about his obsession with Potter, but this is too much—it just isn’t healthy,” she sighs. She seems to have notices that the tone of her voice had been rising because when she speaks again, it’s not as loud. “How long until he goes from demanding the death of a Hippogriff to demanding the death of a _person_ , just to get back at him?”

They all remain silent, letting the question hang heavy in the air. A shiver goes down Tracey’s spine and she wonders whether it’s common for discussions among people her age to take such a sudden, dark turn.

“You worry too much,” Zabini finally speaks, but not before clearing his throat. It’s the most uncomfortable gesture Tracey had seen from him up to this point. “What’s done is done, and we can’t do anything about it—unless you want to go up against Lucius Malfoy in a power struggle.”

Greengrass doesn’t reply. “Thought so. Just let him have his way this once—maybe it’ll make him shut up about Potter for a while.”

Then it’s back to silence. It gets to the point where Tracey, staring down at her glass of Butterbeer and tapping on it with her fingers, is wishing she could go back to when it was uncomfortable because she felt like a stranger in a group of friends, not because they’re all contemplating the possibility of their classmate ordering people to be sentenced to death just to get back at a kid his age for beating him at Quidditch and refusing to be his friend.

(At least, that’s as far as Tracey’s knowledge on the Potter-Malfoy rivalry goes.)

Suddenly, Theodore Nott smacks his hands on the table. They all startle and turn to see him grinning widely.

“Now that I’ve got your attention, I would appreciate it if all of you would lighten up without me having to bring out the Laughing Taffy I got from Zonko’s,” then, standing up, he reaches out to poke Greengrass on the cheek. “I’ll go get you some hot cocoa, alright?”

It’s a rhetorical question, because he’s gone before Greengrass has time to protest and tell him to “just sit down and finish your own drink” or Zabini can let out one of his quiet puffs of laughter.

Whatever tension there was seems to have broken though, so Tracey’s the one to follow her advice as she goes back to sipping on her Butterbeer while the other three begin discussing the rumoured affair between the main vocalist of the Weird Sisters and a famous male model.

 

They leave after Greengrass is finished drinking a ridiculously large mug of cocoa which made Tracey go back to musing on whether Theodore Nott’s wallet is somehow directly connected to his family’s Gringotts account or is simply bottomless. It’s gotten a bit warmer outside, thankfully, so she no longer has to hide half her face behind her scarf as she talks to (of all people!) Zabini about the new wizard detective series and whether it holds up to the genre representative, _Adalbert Hawkeye._

It’s cut short by Parkinson yelling “Draco!” with such a delighted look on her face that it’s almost comical how it instantly changes into one of concern and mild horror.

Tracey understands why when she looks in the same direction and is met with a—well, ‘quite worrisome image’ would be an understatement. Draco Malfoy is _storming_ in their direction, robes billowing under his coat, face red and twisted in anger, and his platinum blond hair half caked with mud. Crabbe and Goyle are stumbling behind him, also muddy and covered in some gruesome looking green muck and looking worse for wear; Crabbe’s coat is torn a little at the sleeve, Goyle has a scratch on his left temple, and they both seem scared out of their wits.

“Draco, what’s happened to yo—“

But Malfoy only stalks past them, towards the castle, yelling “POTTER!” with such ferocity that it sounds more like a curse word. The other two stay behind, grunting and panting like they’d ran all the way—which, by the looks of it, they probably have—and they’re immediately bombarded with a series of questions by a very agitated Parkinson.

“ _See?_ ” Daphne Greengrass uses one gloved hand to grab Nott by the coat and give him a good shake, and the other to point in the direction Malfoy had gone. “Do you see what I mean now?!”

Zabini, still standing next to her, lets out a sigh.

 

Tracy hears about the Hippogriff’s impending execution later that day. _Everyone in Slytherin_ hears about the Hippogriff’s impending execution later that day, because Draco Malfoy makes a point of loudly discussing it in the Common Room, with the glee of someone who got a priceless gift on their birthday. Thinking back to the discussion at The Three Broomsticks, she supposes that’s exactly what it must feel like.

“I can’t wait to see the look on Potter’s face. Oh, and that Mudblood Granger, I’ve heard she—“

Daphne Greengrass shuts the book she was reading with an audible thump, stands up and leaves the room without another word. Left alone on the sofa they’d been sharing, Nott gives Malfoy a reproachful look, albeit lazily.

Slowly, people get bored of listening to Malfoy’s embellished stories and Potter-related rants and start to filter out of the room, Tracey included; but she sticks around long enough to witness Marcus Flint snap and threaten the boy with dismemberment if he didn’t stop talking, then something about him being lazy and an embarrassment to the Quidditch team and giving him a _proper_ injury to put him out for months if he really wants one.

Parkinson and Greengrass are both sitting on the latter’s bed, talking, and they stop to greet her when she steps into the dorm room. Tracey nods in acknowledgement, feeling something heavy settle in her stomach.

“You look a bit off. Everything alright?” Millicent asks from the bed next to hers, once they’re all settled and getting ready to sleep. Tornado had left her side to curl on top of Tracey’s lap, and she mindlessly strokes her fur, grateful for the distraction.

“Yeah.”

“Well… if you say so.”

It takes her a terribly long time to fall asleep.

For at least an hour, she stares at the ceiling and the green curtains drawn around her, thinking. She thinks of the herd of Hippogriffs, standing proud and majestic yet somehow gentle, the happy look on Professor Hagrid’s face as he watched his students interact with them, of the giddiness she’d felt when the one she’d approached had nuzzled its beak into her hand. She thinks of Malfoy happily announcing that the Hippogriff is going to die, of the apathy with which her classmates had reacted to the news, and wonders if the problem lies with her.

Pansy Parkinson had called it a mindless beast, but it had clearly been intelligent enough to react to being called a ‘big, ugly brute’, so should they really be allowed to decide on a whim if something with so much self-awareness should live or die? Should it die just so it can be collateral damage from some childish grudge?

 _It’s not fair_ , she finds herself thinking, blinking back angry tears at the image of Malfoy’s jeering and Nott’s cold, noncommittal shrugs. _Why does it have to die? Why do_ I _have to care and they don’t?_

 _Because you’re better than them,_ says a mean little voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like John’s. _You don’t belong here, you never did._

Somehow, that makes her cry more than the thought of dead Hippogriffs.

 

She wakes up early in the morning to sore eyes, a mild headache, and Daphne Greengrass hesitantly making her way to her, once the curtains of her bed have been drawn back. Tracey responds to her _Good morning_ in kind, and winces when her voice comes out scratchy.

“Last night—“ she closes her mouth, reconsidering. “Are you alright, Tracey?”

“I’m fine.”

“Of course you are,” Greengrass mumbles, skirting the edge of sarcasm. She’s already dressed for the day, bangs pulled back and dark hair falling down her shoulders in elegant waves. “Listen, what happened yesterday… with the Hippogriff. It’s clearly affecting you. And this might be out of line on my part, since I’m upset for a whole other reason so I can’t relate, but…”

She sits on the bed next to her after Tracey gives a nod as wordless permission. Tracey refuses to meet her eyes still, choosing instead to look at Tornado sleeping next to Millicent’s bed.

“But I’m here if you feel like you need to talk. Even if I can’t fully understand, I want to listen and at least try to… do something,” she laughs, weakly. “I really hate just sitting and doing nothing while my friends are upset, you know. Theo says it’s my worst quality and best defect, whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

It’s unclear even to her whether it’s Daphne calling her a friend or how dejected she sounds near the end, but something makes her finally tear her eyes away from the cat and look at the person on her right. There’s nothing exceptional about the way Daphne is sitting, other than the fact her posture is not as straight as usual, and the look on her face isn’t a particularly impressive show of emotions, either. But it’s also not the cold indifference that had been plaguing her the previous day.

“I don’t think I need to talk about it,” she says, and to her surprise, it doesn’t feel like a lie. “But thank you.”

“Alright…” Daphne’s gaze lingers and her lips press together like she doesn’t really believe her. “Just keep that in mind, then.”

Tracey figures she’s about to leave and go on with her day; it’s about time she should start getting ready as well, and do something about her bloodshot eyes while she’s at it. Instead, she’s completely floored when Daphne’s face breaks out into a small smile and she asks: “Hey, do you want me to braid your hair?”

“After you’re done getting dressed, of course,” she tacks on immediately, like it’s supposed to help Tracey be less confused about the sudden proposal.

She considers saying no, before she realises she doesn’t really have a reason to.

“Sure.”

As she sits back on the edge of her bed a while later, allowing Daphne (eyebrows creased, wand held between her teeth) to run her fingers through her hair and neatly section it in preparation, she thinks back to an actual discussion she’s had with John when they’d done back home for the holidays during her first year.

“They might act nice at first, but that’s probably because they’ve got something they’re after,” he’d said, in response to her insisting that nobody in Slytherin had so far been anything but civil to her—no less civil than they were to each other in general, at least. His lip curled in something akin to disdain. “Their heart’s never in the right place.”

Later that day, she thinks of the discomfort in the way Daphne had approached her, worry chipping away at the effortless grace she usually displays, at the genuine concern in her eyes and caution in the tone of her voice, at the hesitant smile on her face when she offered to braid Tracey’s hair—like she hoped she’d say yes, but wouldn’t have held it against her if she’d said no.

She also thinks of Millicent saying she’s free to play with Tornado whenever she wants, that she’s taken a liking to her so much that she’s as good as her second owner. Then she thinks of Pansy Parkinson running over to them with a huge smile and a silver ribbon in her hands because it would look lovely in Tracey’s hair, of Theodore Nott confirming that with a compliment when they bump into him in the Common Room, of Blaise Zabini handing her the twelfth volume of _Adalbert Hawkeye_ —the only one she couldn’t find to read—and saying he’s curious to hear her opinion once she’s done.

She thinks of going to Transfiguration that day and Draco Malfoy stopping halfway through whatever he was saying when he takes notice of her, resembling a child that got scolded by its parents after he’s been caught saying a bad word.

John may not be right after all, she decides; because their hearts might not be in the same place as Tracey’s own—but that doesn’t necessary mean they’re in a wrong one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm neither denying nor confirming the fact that Draco Malfoy actually got some kind of scolding off-screen, nor the fact that it was terrible enough to make him wary around Tracey for a long while after the fact.
> 
> TL;DR: The actual underlying message of this is _Do not piss off Daphne Greengrass._


End file.
